


Trigger Point

by unablearethelovedto_die



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-06
Updated: 2019-06-06
Packaged: 2020-04-11 19:59:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19116676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unablearethelovedto_die/pseuds/unablearethelovedto_die
Summary: When Ron and Hermione both fall sick, perhaps a non-magical remedy is required to heal them. One Shot. Post Battle of Hogwart's. Written for Tumblr's Romione Fluff Fest 2019





	Trigger Point

“It looks like frogspawn.”

“It’s very effective. My parents used it all the time.”

Ron gazed dubiously through the green glass. “A Muggle remedy? It is very unlike Mum to allow something like this. Are you sure she said it was ok?"

Hermione wrapped both arms around her body and rolled her head around on her neck. Every centimetre of movement produced a minute click and she resisted the urge to groan. Her shoulders felt hunched and sore, her glands pulsed in her throat.

“I think she just thought... after everything we had been through.” He glanced up at her quickly and then back to the jar. “Something simple and magic free might help. Nothing else is really working.”

*************************

This was Day 6 of confinement. It was now some weeks after the Battle of Hogwarts and July had descended with unflinching heat. It had felt like a blessing at first. The world had been so cold and dark for so long. The summer sun made the winter seem very far away. The mature gardens of the Burrow were full of life, unapologetic colour wherever the eye fell. Every tree was heavy laden with blossom, each flower head busy with life. 

Everyone, in their own way, was finding out who they were after the War. Ginny and Harry were taking a lot of walks together, returning to the Burrow looking more hopeful each time, like one worry line had been ironed free from each of their faces. Ron had watched them with gentle envy. That first kiss between him and Hermione hung, unspoken.

He had wanted to bring it up every day but the moment was never right. Hermione had spent much of the first few weeks in Ginny’s room, emerging for meals and occasionally venturing outside for brief periods. He loitered in odd places hoping he might conjure up a meeting; the stairs, the back porch. One time he sat up on the sofa in the living room until after midnight, hoping she would sense he was there and come down. She had always been good at that at school; so many times she had known just what he was thinking.

But she didn’t come and Ron became more and more convinced that perhaps she considered it a mistake. Maybe she was embarrassed and worried he would bring it up. Hermione wasn’t deliberately cruel- she wouldn’t want to hurt his feelings. Perhaps she was hoping that he would read her mind and know how she felt.

The morning after his sofa vigil, Ron awoke, his head full and throat raw. He had tried to ignore it, helping his mum degnome the garden, peeling a seemingly endless supply of potatoes, albeit with greater ease now he could use magic. But it grew worse, the banging in his head and the sweating down his back. His joints ached, eyelids heavy, and he had to conclude he was sick. His mother, relishing the opportunity to take care of someone who couldn't put up much of a fight, dropped straight into action. Mrs Weasley banished him to his room, moving Harry elsewhere, and there he stayed, a captive audience to the increasingly nasty remedies she subjected him to. She boiled up a thin blueish soup that he swallowed with his nose pinched shut. She made him sit in the bath up to his neck in violently pink water that was popping round the edges. 

Five days in, she applied a strange smelling poultice type object to the back of his neck, to be held there for exactly 36 minutes.

On minute 19, Ron muttered, "Perhaps that's enough of this one Mum. I'm starting to smell a bit.... froggy."

"Nonsense", Mrs Weasley replied, stopping folding the laundry to press it more firmly onto his neck to prevent him from lifting his head from where it rested on the pillow. "36 minutes precisely. That's what the book says."

Ron sighed and tried not to feel so amphibian.

And then, casually. "Hermione lasted the full 36 minutes and I'm sure she's looking a good bit better today."

Ron shot up onto his knees, poultice sliding off onto the bed. "Hermione's sick too?"

"Oh Ron!" His mother rushed over and lifted the knitted package, cradling it her hand. "How are you supposed to get better if you won't listen to me dear! 36 minutes precisely...."

Ron felt impatience rising. "Mum, what about Hermione?"

His mother seemed to admit defeat, shoulders sagging a little. "Yes, yes, Hermione came down with this the day after you did. Cough, blocked nose, sore limbs. Can't seem to shift hers either. It's strange because no one else in the house is even remotely..." She cast him a suspicious glance and trailed off.

Ron felt shifty yet he knew he had no reason to. Hermione had been practically invisible to him since they returned to the Burrow. She had made every effort to avoid being anywhere near him; surely that was obvious to everyone. There was no... contact that could have transmitted this.

He was still thinking about it the next day when his mother barged into his room and announced they were all going out for the day. He raised his head hopefully but she had taken one look at him and said, "Another day in bed and you'll be feeling much better dear". He flopped back down in disgust, knowing that she was right; his body felt like it was slowly recovering but wasn't quite there yet. He lay fitfully in bed, flicking through old Chudley Cannons annuals. This was the first day he had begun to feel more like himself and he was restless and frustrated with his tender body and snarly cough.

He took a shower, noticing the bath was wet as he turned on the taps. Was Hermione still in the house or had she gone out with them? The urge to go look was overwhelming but he stopped himself.

Climbing back onto his bed, fresh pyjamas and flush with heat, he rubbed his neck absently with both hands. Should he check on her? No. Hadn't she made it clear, pointedly so, that she didn't want to see him? He wasn't going to make a fool of himself by going to her. If she wanted to see him, couldn't she come here? Ron lay down on the bed with a crackly exhale. But what if she was sicker than him? Maybe she couldn't get out of bed? The decent, gentlemanly thing to do would be to check. 

He dropped one foot to the floor and abruptly the door opened with a squeak and there she was. He took in her dark blue satin pyjamas, loose on her petite frame, her dark crazy hair standing upright in every direction, like hundreds of little question marks all over her head. Her eyes looked heavy, little upturned nose red. She looked like he felt.

"Are you awake?" It was a superfluous thing to say but Hermione didn't know how else to break the silence. She had been standing, palm against the door, for a long time, listening to his chesty breaths, trying not to make too many of her own. She had battled with herself for weeks, knowing things had to be said, wanting them said really but being quite afraid to either hear them or say them. It wasn't like her to lack courage. She tackled everything in life head on, despite whatever fear she might be feeling, despite the mammoth task that might await her. But Ron was different. Scary stuff likes basilisks threatened her outer shell, her human body. Ron could look at her with half a glance and touch the very heart of her. And that burned more keenly than any magical thing.

"I brought something I thought might help," she said, raising a green glass jar with a metal lid. "I asked Harry to get it for me. And I showed it to your Mum too."

She walked tentatively into the room, proffering the little gift shyly.

*********************************

Ron unscrewed the lid and inhaled deeply. The heady scent of eucalyptus and menthol wafted up and for a second his head felt marginally clearer. 

“Do we... eat it?” He looked doubtful.

Hermione laughed, though it sounded hoarse and low, like it had gotten stuck in her chest half way up, took the jar from him and sat down onto the bed. “No Ron, you rub it into your skin. It helps to warm your chest and back and clear your sinuses. I thought we could do each other's backs." She paused. "And our own chests. Obviously." 

Ron seemed preoccupied with poking at the gloop in the jar and didn't respond. “You’ll need to...” He glanced up and Hermione gestured vaguely at his t shirt. He felt alarm well up in his stomach and his eyes widen slightly. She wanted him to remove his top. He was going to be half naked in front of her, in his bed. To be fair, Hermione looked more than a little abashed by the scenario, her cheeks pinkened as she rolled the little glass jar in her hands and pretended the read the instructions printed on it.

Why did he have to go first? Merlin, he had wanted the opportunity to talk to her about their kiss. That was the wish he had sent out into the karmic ether. He DID NOT ask for this. THIS was seven or eight steps ahead of what he had been planning. 

The heat of his ears and cheeks brought him back from his thought spiral and made him acutely aware he hadn’t said anything for a really long time. You can do this Weasley. It’s only Hermione. Without allowing another thought to rise up in his head, he roughly pulled the green material over his head and threw it behind him onto the floor. He stared resolutely at a point on her pyjama top, somewhere near her navel.

Hermione raised her head slowly and he could have sworn he saw her abdominals pull in slightly, as if she had taken a big breath. She gathered her hair at the nape of her neck, still damp from the bath, and tossed it on top of her head, held with elastic.

“If you turn round. So I can do your back.” He could hardly hear her at all and he wasn’t sure if that was because she was speaking so quietly or if the buzzing in his ears was drowning her out. It was a bit awkward, changing position, his bed being so small and Hermione taking up half of it. He dropped his feet to the floor and she leaned back as far as she could, as if desperate not to make contact with him at all while he adjusted. He dropped back down onto the bed, facing away from her this time and pulled one leg half underneath him, the other hanging over the side of the bed. He felt the bed depress and shift as she shuffled herself closer. One leg draped over the side of the bed, a respectable distance from his. 

There was a long pause. Ron wasn’t sure what to do in the silence so he just sat, feeling more and more foolish. Eventually, he heard Hermione unscrew the jar, metal on glass, and dip her fingers into the mixture.

“This might be a bit cold,” she whispered, “I’ll try and warm it up a bit.” Her hands smacked together lightly as she rubbed palm to palm. The menthol was becoming stronger and Ron's head was starting to feel a bit light. Just get over with already, why couldn't she? If he had to sit here any longer, half dressed, in broad daylight..

Suddenly he felt the cool pressure of two little hands press lightly on his shoulder blades. His body gave an involuntary shiver and the skin that had seemed sweat clogged now felt icy, each tiny arrector pili muscle switching on. Goosebumps, he thought absently. In July. What was she doing to him?

Ron had always been slightly shy when it came to revealing his body. He wasn't like Cormac McLeggan who took any and every opportunity to parade around in tight t shirts and vests, showing off his brawny arms. There wasn't much brawn to Ron. His body had grown long and lanky as he aged. It sometimes seemed to take him by surprise when he tripped over his big feet or hit his head on a door frame. Like he didn't remember he took up quite this much space.

But Hermione had committed his frame to memory and it was all good. She knew his knobbly wrist bones and the curve of his ear lobe and the length of his neck. His pale gingery eyelashes that swept against his cheek as he slept. Her deep, strong feelings for him meant that all those things were significant. But how do you tell your best friend that? How do you tell them that you are grateful for their bravery, their kindness, for the fact that they could have had anyone as a friend and they chose you? How do you say 'Thanks for all that but I want more?' That all of that isn't enough. 

Except... He hadn't made any effort to bridge the gap between them since they arrived here. She had thought if she stayed in Ginny's room or walked in the orchard, nearly always alone, that he would use the time when it could be just the two of them. Take the initiative. She had made the first move hadn't she? Ron was a master of chess. Surely he knew it was his turn to move?

Unless he didn't want to move. That was a depressing thought. But was it because he didn't want her or because he was shy? A wild part of Hermione wanted to slide round onto his lap. Force their bodies closer together than ever before. Take his sweet face in her hands and kiss every breath out of both of their bodies. His skin, rubbing against her skin as they clawed to be closer. Her hair falling round them as he pulled her down onto the bed on top of him. It would negate the need for all this talking. She could just show him. Something hot licked through her. 

"Rhomboid major," she said suddenly, as if it has entered her mouth without going through her brain first.

Ron half turned to look at her. "Are you hexing me from behind?"

She felt a giggle rumble in her chest and relaxed slightly. "If I were hexing you Ronald Weasley, you would know about it. No, these," she cupped her hands lightly on his back, "Are your rhomboid major muscles."

She heard Ron click his tongue. "How or why would you ever need to know that?"

This was safe territory, she thought happily. Books and cleverness. Focusing on facts would mean she wasn't focusing on... bare...skin.

"It's important to know the musculature of the human body if you are performing curses on it," she replied, her voice becoming more authoritarian. "For example, Petrificus Totalus is a paralyser and it's good practice to know what is going on in the body when you perform it."

"Dunno how you do it Hermione. Honestly your brain must be the size...." his sentence trailed off to a satisfied slur as the pressure on his shoulder blades melted inwards and down his back, tracing a soft line down each side of his spine. And then up again, unhurried and deliberate, cresting over the tops of his shoulders. 

"Trapezius... deltoid..." The paste slowed her motions, snagging her skin over his. It was almost unbearable. Over his lats ("Lattissimus dorsi...") which felt firm and striated under the pressure. How different his body was now, no longer soft in places. Every muscle long and contracted with purpose. He hadn’t really thought about it until now; his body has just done whatever he had told it to, reacted to whatever he had given it. But now, under her gaze, nothing to distract them, nowhere to hide, he had became acutely aware of his own physicality. 

Of course he had given serious consideration to Hermione’s physicality. Nights spent together in the common room, watching her riotous curls shine in the firelight. They looked hard and wiry and yet he knew that when they brushed against your arm as she pushed her nose ever closer to her book, that really they were soft and light, ticklish. The length of her legs, wrapped in thick wool under her skirt and the swell of her thigh as she crossed them. Reaching over him in the tent to light a lamp and that sallow stretch of lean stomach as her shirt fell away. The tiny little hairs on the back of her fingers as her hand lay inches from his face in Grimmauld Place, that he had lightly stroked while she slept. Every dream she had ever invaded when he knew he should be thinking of another, that he had woke from feeling heavy, choked and overwhelmed with lust. 

Contact was lost briefly and Ron almost groaned at its absence. He needed to give himself a good talking to if he was going to survive this. He could hear Hermione rubbing her palms together again and then her thumb pads pressed at the base of his spinal column. Firmly she pushed up either side, his skin wrinkling and spreading as she moved upwards. When she reached the base of his skull, she returned to the bottom and started again. Ron wasn’t sure he’d felt anything quite as good as this before. Unwittingly, he dropped his head, feeling his middle back stretch and the next time she reached the top, her fingers spread into his hair. She curled and pulled them back, her nails trailing deliciously on his scalp. Ron felt his tongue grow heavy in his mouth, his eyes half close. His whole body hummed in a happy, warm way.

On her fourth pass, he muttered, "It feels really bumpy there." The upward pressure froze and she rubbed back on forward on the area."Here?"

"Blimey... yes. What is that?"

"The muscle fibres stick together with tension. It's a trigger point, like a knot."

Ron flopped his head left and right on his neck as she pushed on the knot with her thumb, trying not to apply fingernails. "What muscle is that?"

There was a strange pause behind him. "It...uh. It keeps your back straight. So you don't get all hunched over." Silence. Vigorous working at the knot.

Ron smirked. Had he, Ron Weasley, found something that the brightest witch of our age didn't know? "But what's it called?" he persisted, a teasing note in his voice.

"Erector spinae," she stated loudly, attempting to drown out the blood rushing past her ears. Instantly Ron knew why there had been a pause. Unwittingly, he glanced down at his lap and then, just as quickly, straightened up. Had she seen him doing that? Merlin, why hadn't he kept his big mouth shut? It was bad enough that all this skin on skin contact was making him slightly lightheaded. But then she'd gone and said 'erector'. He was done for. This clever, beautiful witch was going to be the death of him and she was just carrying on, like nothing had happened. Like she hadn't said it.

I said 'erector'. Out loud. While Ron is half naked. While we are in in his bed. And was it her imagination or had he looked down at his crotch when she said it? If Hermione had had it within her means to curse herself into a big hole in the ground right there and then she would have. Heat rushed up her neck and flooded her cheeks. Her hands worked mechanically over his back and she took a shaky breath. Steady Granger. You aren't some daft girl that giggles every time someone says a faintly dirty word. If he can carry on like nothing had happened then so can you. But the damage was done. The smear of the ointment made a satiny sheen on his skin whose freckles had got darker in the sun. Hermione wondered what it would be like to spend the whole day undressed with Ron, tracing lines between the freckles.. following where they lead, finding new ones... Oh good grief.

"I think that's you all done!" she said brightly, pushing herself off the bed with force. Ron jerked with surprise and turned to face her.

"Oh, right." He sat looking at her, twiddling the little glass jar in her hands. "Er... well ok... I guess it's your turn?"

Hermione shook her head and took a step backwards. She'd be damned if she was going to let him run his hands all over her. "I'm fine, actually. Feeling much better. I don't think I really need..." Unfortunately her treacherous body had taken that moment to let out a great hacking cough. It swooped up her throat and out of her mouth before she knew it was coming and bent her in half as she was wracked with spasms. Ron watched her, one eyebrow raised.

It could only have been a minute but it felt like ten before she finally stopped with a shiver. Ron's mouth lifted at one corner. "Get on the bed."

Knowing she was beat, Hermione wiped her mouth with the back of one hand and crawled gingerly onto the bed. Her back ached after her coughing fit and actually having someone rub it seemed like quite a nice prospect. She stretched her legs out towards the bottom of the bed and felt Ron scootch in behind her, back to the wall. Two long legs arranged themselves, one down each side of hers, and she felt the pressure of his inside thighs against her outer ones. The sensation sent heat cascading down through her stomach and somewhere in her low belly there was a pleasurable contraction. She bit her lip and allowed herself to revel in the feeling for a few seconds.

Ron's voice brought her back. "Can't do it through your jammies." He sounded embarrassed and gave a little cough at the end that may, or may not, have been real. 

Hermione’s fingers felt clumsy as she worked at the buttons on her pyjama top. Of course Ron had seen parts of her body before. Sleeping three in a tent, there was always a danger someone would walk in as she changed her top or rouse her from sleep to find her pyjama bottoms had crept down low on her hips. At first it had been embarrassing but quickly they had all just got on with it. She rather thought they had started treating her like one of the lads; her bare back inciting the same reaction as either of theirs. In the middle of war it didn’t matter, it was preferable. But now, here, with life and the opportunity to live it reaching out in front of her, Hermione didn’t want Ron to think of her the same way as he thought of Harry. She wanted… something else entirely.

Breathing slowly through her nose, Hermione stopped unbuttoning half way down. With a slight twitch of her shoulders the satin fabric slipped off and lazily slid down her arms, bunching at the elbows and she unclipped her bra. She was gratified to hear a sort of strangled sound from behind her. 

Ron felt like he hadn’t taken a breath for a solid minute. The gold summer light shone through the warped window pane, refracting over her back. Downy hair near the base of her spine, made blonde by sun, caught his eye. He only just stopped himself from running a knuckle over them. Every filthy teenaged fantasy he had ever had somehow wasn’t quite as good as this. He had envisioned the first time he would see her naked, when she intentionally showed herself to him. He had always considered himself to have quite the imagination, there really was no stone unturned when he was alone in the dark and thinking about Hermione. But this. And Merlin, this was only her back! They hadn’t even got to the good stuff yet.

Ron gave himself an internal shake. You’ve been staring at her so long, you’ve made it weird. Do something! 

Hurriedly, he scooped out some of the paste and, without thinking, smeared it down Hermione’s back. She let out a yelp. 

“It’s cold!” She pulled her knees up to her chest and shivered, a line of goose bumps appearing down the back of each arm, her skin pulling taut against her ribs.

“Sorry… let me.. sort it…” He dropped the jar onto the bed and flexed his hands a inch away from her skin. He would start with her shoulders, he decided. Nice and safe up there.

Ron lifted the paste with a thumb and rubbed it into his palms. Taking a breath, he pressed the heel of his hands onto her shoulders, fingers curling over the top and began working his thumbs into muscle. 

Almost instantaneously, Hermione’s knees dropped to either side and she let out a soft almost imperceptible groan. Ron felt his mouth drop open slightly. Hermione groaned at him all time. Sometimes odd things would happen when he tried to perform spells and she would groan at him before showing him the right way. Or if he said something inappropriate at a delicate moment, she would groan and shake her head. If he really pissed her off she might groan ‘Ron!’ before elbowing him or whacking him upside the head with her book. But this groan wasn’t anything like that. This sounded like pleasure. It might even be classified as…a moan. Bloody hell, if he was making her moan… Ron’s ears were scalding now, he sat up straighter and tried to focus on the little knots at the base of Hermione’s neck.

Just like he had, she allowed her head to drop and her breathing evened out. The scent of eucalyptus was intoxicating and seemed to be curling into her nose and chest and opening everything out. She couldn’t remember the last time she had taken a full breath, chest expanding the way it should, actually smelling anything. But the warmth of Ron’s fingers and hell, of Ron himself, radiating through her seemed like the perfect balm to her weary body.

“Is that ok?” Ron’s voice was barely a whisper.

“It’s amazing,” Hermione replied simply and he felt pleased with himself. He fanned his fingers wide and moved them up and down her ribcage, putting extra pressure on his thumbs next to her spine, just like she had done. She had made him feel so good and he wanted her to feel the same. He wanted to do anything that would make her groan like that again, however uncomfortable the thought of it was making his lower half. He carried on, rubbing and massaging, surreptitiously avoiding her erector spinae should that happen to come up again. She was so soft and supple under his hands. She felt exactly the way she was meant to.

Ron didn't know how long he had been kneading her back when he noticed she was developing goosebumps again. 

"Are you cold?" he asked, voice thick and disused.

"A little I guess."

His fingers ceased and he clipped the thin straps of pale pink lace back together. He lifted the collar of the pyjama shirt, sliding it up over her back and arranging it over her shoulders as she buttoned it. Hesitantly, he smoothed the fabric down her arms, one hand over each sleeve. Without missing a beat, Hermione lay back against his chest, her little body caged between his long legs.

"Is this ok?" Barely a whisper and Ron could feel her holding herself rigid. Merlin what a thing to ask him.

"Yes. Course it is." Her body melted further back onto his and likewise he leant back against the wall to support them both. His knees drew up at right angles releasing the fizz of poor blood flow after being straight for so long. Emboldened by the fact that she had closed the gap between them, Ron allowed his hands to fold lightly over hers in her lap. 

A long moment passed until Hermione spoke again. "I wanted to thank you."

That surprised him. "What for?"

"Everything really. Having my back. Putting up with me all these years. Being my best friend."

Ron snorted. "Yeah you're no picnic."

Hermione was stung, her eyes prickling sharply. "I know," she murmured with a sniff. "And you have tolerated me..."

Ron was abruptly aware he had said the wrong thing, that she had taken it wrong. How could she even think that? He sat up, bringing her body with his. Reaching up, he pulled the elastic from her hair in one flick of his wrist and her beautiful brunette waves spilled down over her shoulders. He buried his face in them, inhaling the strong clean smell of her shampoo.

"You are not someone I have ever tolerated," he mumbled into her hair, both hands now enveloping hers. She sat still. "I tolerate a lot of things. My Aunt Muriel. The ghoul in the attic. My mum cutting my hair. Not you. Never you."

Hermione hadn't realised her eyes were closed until this point. The low hum of his voice through her hair was sending cool trembles up her neck and round her ears. His hands felt rough against the backs of hers and he was rubbing slow circles on her palms with his callused thumbs. 

Timidly, she turned her head towards him and Ron gathered her hair back from her face with his left hand. His breath warmed her cheek and her hair tickled his and, in exactly the same moment, both of them thought This. Is. It.

Hermione tilted her head ever so slightly upward and for a second, Ron thought to himself that she would never look any better than she did right now and then he thought of nothing else as he brought his mouth to meet hers.

For Hermione it was like melting, two halves into one. She turned her body round for better access as their lips melded together until she was on her knees in front of him, hands in his hair. The flick of his tongue against hers, one long arm pulling her upright on her knees, her head above his, one big hand cradling her jaw line. She allowed one hand to drop down to his chest, her thumb drawing a electric line down his exposed throat, and pressed it there feeling his heartbeat hammering through. She couldn't believe how moreish this was. When would it ever be enough?

For Ron it was like a million tiny fireworks going off at once. He cupped her face in his hands as she turned towards him. She tasted of peppermint and so much sweetness and he wanted to delve into her, memorizing her from the outside in. Her teeth scraped along his bottom lip and tugged it ever so slightly. The sensation was otherworldly. He couldn't find enough places to put his hands, he wanted to touch her everywhere- the small of her back, the ridge of her collarbone, the smooth firmness of her belly. There just wasn't enough time to do all that and kiss her deeply, the way he wanted to.

When they pulled apart, chests heaving for breath, Hermione's dark eyes met Ron's blue ones. 

"I think I'm cured," she whispered.

"Yeah," he whispered back, "Me too."


End file.
